In
the time I have been with you, I have heard many rumors about myself,
as well as my past. Each time I make a mistake in my lessons, each
time I pass a servant in the hall, I hear bits of my life story
whispered. The highly distorted tale seems to go thus: I was horribly
mistreated by my evil stepmother and stepsisters after the death of
my kindly but stupid father and was forced into menial labor and
given unkind nicknames concerning soot until my fairy godmother
whisked me off to a ball where the handsome prince swept me off my
feet. If this sounds at all familiar to you, you have been sadly
misguided. I do not have a fairy godmother. My name is not
Cinderella. My stepsisters and stepmother are not evil. My father
was not stupid. Above all, the 'charming' prince had absolutely
nothing to do with any of this. Please allow me to set the rumors
straight.

My
father was not a stupid man. Lonely, sad, yes, but he was not stupid.
When he married Charisse, he knew exactly who he was marrying- a
kindhearted, helpful woman. Her twin daughters, Morna and Mirabelle,
were well-behaved young ladies who were two years older than I was. I
had just turned five, and was thrilled to be getting sisters. We
played together and learned together. As the years passed, we became
more and more like real sisters and Charisse seemed more and more
like my mother. I had never known my real mother, as she had died
giving birth to me. In my young mind, a new mother just fit, and I
grew up in a home full of love.

As
I have said, my father was not stupid. He was, for a working class
man, actually very well educated. He could read and write, as well as
do basic math and accounting. He decided that if he could read, the
women of his household should be able to read as well, and so taught
all of us, even Charisse, how to do so. Mirabelle had no aptitude for
reading, and could not stand books, but she learned how, eventually
finding an appreciation for it in correspondence. Morna was
indifferent, and would sometimes pick up a book if she could find
nothing else to do. I, on the other hand, loved it. I would hole up
for hours and read. We had a library, albeit a very limited one, and
I went through every book at least twice by the time I was ten.

When
I was eleven, my stepsisters left for finishing school, going off
away from home and leaving me by myself. Charisse announced that I
could cut back on my schooling, as I had previously taken class with
my sisters and they were gone. Suddenly I had more free time than I
knew what to do with, and I began to spend more and more time with my
father in his work.

He
was a glassblower, and he made everything from tiaras to windowpanes,
all of which delighted me. I began to occasionally experiment with
shaping glass scraps before they cooled, although more often than not
I ended up with a deformed lump of glass, scalded fingers, and a
sooty face. I remember one morning as I sat with newly burnt fingers
in my mouth, a finely dressed young man walked into the shop. With a
disdainful look, as though I were an unpleasant bit of something on
the bottom of his shoe, he looked down his cocky little nose at me
and sniffed. "You, Cindersoot, where is the glassmith?" I was
indignant at being called Cindersoot, but I went to fetch my father
anyway. He emerged from the back, wiping his face on a gray
handkerchief, which at the day's beginning had been white. The
cocky man sniffed again, but addressed my father, saying, "I hear
that you have a knack for glass." I wanted to knock the teeth out
of the puffed-up popinjay's mouth, but I remained silent. I could
see my father's spine tense and straighten at the blatant
disrespect offered by the man.

"Some
might say that. Can I help you find anything?" His voice was tight,
and I knew that his reaction was similar to mine.

"I
was told that I could purchase a quality vase here. I... um... well,
the reason it is needed is not important." The young man finally
showed some sign of being human; he probably had a sweetheart who he
had infuriated with his supercilious affectations.

"Right
over there I believe you may find what you are looking for." The
young man walked in the indicated direction, picked up a few items
with disdainful fingers, snorted in less-than private derision, and
walked back to where we stood. At the snort, my father's eyes
hardened and he took on the look I only saw when I had done something
particularly rude and embarrassing. "Did you find nothing of high
enough quality for you?"

"No.
These vases are an embarrassment. I could never give one of these as
a gift!" The man was obviously used to getting whatever he wanted.

"You
are certainly no fit judge for glasswork. I doubt you are a fit judge
of any work, as it isn't likely you've done a day of it in your
life!"

"I
certainly can tell that your work is poor. I'll bet you couldn't
make a piece of glass strong enough to withstand any pressure at all.
I'm surprised every window in three towns has not broken if you
made it!"

"Ha!
I could make shoes for my daughter from this glass!"

"I'll
bet on that!" The two men shook hands and worked out a deal which,
if my father lost, would cost our family a considerable amount, far
beyond our means. I hoped he did not lose.

All
week I helped my father as he heated, shaped, and tempered the glass.
Each time we thought they were finished, I would try a little weight
in the shoe. Always, the glass would crack, and we would have to
reinforce it, often starting from scratch again. On Thursday, he woke
me at dawn to help him. We had one day left to complete the shoes,
and I began to doubt that we could manage it.

We
had tried everything we could think of to strengthen the glass, but
none of it seemed to work. I was growing frustrated with the entire
process, and I worried that my father had made a very foolish
decision. It seemed as though we were going to lose the bet, and
potentially all of our money along with it. By the end of the day, my
fears had not been allayed. So far I had gone through four pairs of
unsuccessful shoes, and the ones that we had just finished did not
seem any more likely to win us the bet. At sunset I tried on the
final pair, and as I stepped into them, they held the little weight
that I put on the delicate glass. I put more and more, finally
standing fully in the shoes. I stood and admired them, the way they
curved, the little touches of decoration on the top that curled
prettily. A huge grin across my face, I began to step towards my
father to show off how well they worked, but as I lifted my foot to
walk, the heel of the shoe shattered and I fell onto the worktable
behind me. Looking up at my father, I could see for the first time
the same fears that I felt reflected in his eyes. We were going to
lose.

I
collected the shattered glass and dumped it in the proper bin. As I
walked inside to clean up before dinner, my father stopped me.
"Please tell your mother that I will not be in for supper. I can
eat later." I shook my head, trying to hide my despair, and walked
inside.

I
woke the next morning bruised from my fall and worried still. The
likelihood of our winning the bet was so small, and all night I had
dreamt about the consequences of loss. When dawn broke, I threw off
my bedcover, splashed the little frigid water in my bedside pitcher
across my face, dressed hurriedly, and rushed downstairs to see if
there were any loaf ends left from the night before to break my fast.
I gathered enough of the leftovers to feed my father and myself, then
rushed out the kitchen door and down to my father's shop.

When
I arrived, I found my father working there. He appeared to have slept
little, if at all. I watched as he placed his tongs into the fire and
removed a tiny globe of glass like a ball of burning rainwater. He
placed it carefully on top of a shoe I had not previously noticed was
on the table, then laid the tongs down. He stepped back to survey the
work and I froze as his latest efforts were revealed.

The
rough, burned wood of the worktable seemed more beautiful for the
honor of bearing these shoes. They had only the smallest hint of
heel, just enough to support a foot properly. The thick band across
the top, to keep the shoe on when the wearer was dancing or walking,
was decorated with what looked like little glass flowers, with pale
blue petals and soft green centers, with the same green in the leaves
and vines that wound down the sides. I stood for several moments
until I began to get lightheaded, at which point I realized I had
been holding my breath.

"Do
you think they'll work?" I barely whispered, feeling as though I
needed to be reverent in the presence of the shoes. A silly notion,
but nonetheless, I remained quiet.

"I
can only hope so."

My
father and I spent much of the morning cleaning the shop. I did not
try the shoes on so that even if they did not succeed we would have
evidence of our work when Pompous Young Man arrived. We worked in
silence, each keeping our thoughts and prayers to ourselves as we
scrubbed down the tables, cleared out ashes, and cleaned each piece
of glass. My father seemed to be thinking very hard, and counting. I
still am not sure what he was doing then. As for myself, I prayed
that we would win. Pompous Young Man could afford to lose; we could
not.

As
I completed superficially dusting a display of vases, the same one
Pompous Young Man had laughed at, I heard someone enter the shop.
Turning around, I was instantly filled with fear and anger- it was
Pompous Young Man, back again, with a smug smile upon his face.
Trying not to let my emotions show, I fetched my father wordlessly.
He brought the shoes from the back of the shop, carrying them on a
small blue cushion, old and battered as everything in our house was,
but still somehow appropriate. The young man's eyes grew wide upon
first sight of the shoes, and it was clear that we had impressed him.

"Well,
you've actually done something this week. What a surprise. Pretty
they are, but they could never support a girl's weight. I will
enjoy winning this bet." Despite his words, I could read fear in
his eyes. For the first time, he seemed to doubt that he would win.
My father did not respond to the man's words, but instead laid the
shoes on the floor with great care and beckoned me to step into them.
I carefully slipped my foot inside one, then the other, using the
table behind me for support. "She must take three steps."

I
stood in them slowly, my eyes shut tightly in fear. I lifted my right
foot, waiting for my fall, but it never came. I opened my eyes and
took another step. And another. I continued walking, taking tiny
mincing steps, until I had walked a circle around the young man. I
watched his eyes with each step, but he stared at my feet, in the
shoes that were slightly too big. With each baby step, he had grown
more astonished and dismayed, until I completed my circuit. He
finally met my father's eyes with a glare that only the spoiled can
master when they do not get their way. He then walked to his horse,
which was tied outside, and took a purse out of his saddlebag. He
nearly threw it at my father, and with a last sneer leaped onto his
horse and galloped off as if fire followed him. I turned, carefully
for the sake of the shoes, towards my father, who grinned hugely at
me. Slipping the amazing glass slippers off my feet, I ran back into
the house, shouting, "we won! We won!" My father shook his head,
placed the shoes on their cushion, and followed me back inside.

I
ran into the kitchen, where my stepmother was making an early lunch.
I nearly crashed into her in my joy. "We won! We won the bet!" I
could hardly contain myself, and it was all I could do not to
strangle her accidentally as I hugged her.

"Won
what?" She looked down at me, slightly confused, before moving my
arms so that she could continue preparing food.

"The
bet that Father made with that annoying young man. We won!" My
father walked into the room at the end of my proclamation, and his
face fell.

"Charles,
dear, what's this about a bet?" Charisse asked the question in an
innocent voice with a cherubic smile, but I knew I had gotten him
into trouble.

"Oh
nothing darling, I just set a poor misguided young man straight about
the quality of my craftsmanship."

"Is
that so? If it was nothing, why was I charged and nearly killed by a
rampant daughter? And how much was this bet?" She looked at him in
a way that I recognized- I had often received the same look when I
was not telling the whole truth and she knew it.

"A
very snobby rich young man came into the shop last week and insulted
my work, so I bet him a little that I could make shoes that Isabella
could walk in. And I did."

"How
much did you bet, Charles?" Her voice was growing colder the
longer he dodged the questions.

"A
THOUSAND GOLDS! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" I excused myself at her
explosion, guessing that he would not want me present for his little
scolding.

Seven
years passed. I grew a scant inch, my sisters returned home, and I
refused to attend their finishing school, but otherwise our life was
rather uneventful. My father's business prospered as word of the
shoes traveled around, and many people offered to buy them but he
always denied the more than generous offers. My father said that he
had made them for me and so they were mine to keep. I hid them away,
thinking to pass on the legend to my children and never expecting to
get an opportunity to wear them.

It
was a typical early-spring afternoon- chilly, but there was the
promise of warmth soon to come hanging in the air. My sisters and I
sat by the kitchen fire where it was warmest, Mirabelle writing a
letter to one of her friends from finishing school, Morna working on
her embroidery, and I reading. Our silent concentration was
interrupted by a knock on the front door, which Mirabelle and Morna
scrambled to answer as I walked slowly behind. There at the door
stood a herald, looking rather bored of his job and disgusted at
having to go anywhere where the inhabitants were too poor to have
servants. He stifled a yawn and began to recite his message in a
monotone voice. "Citizens of the land: let it be known that upon
the night of April Third, two weeks hence, the King, Queen, and their
son, Prince Ethelard, invite every Young Maiden to a Ball at which
Prince Ethelard shall choose his Bride. The Celebration shall last
from Sunset until Sunrise. Long live the King!" Leaving three
shocked girls standing in the doorway, the disgruntled herald stumped
off to the next home to deliver the news.

Mirabelle
broke the silence. "MOTHEEEEEEEEER!" She took off to find
Charisse and divulge the news so they could begin preparation. Morna
muttered something about the royalty having lost their heads, but ran
quickly after her. I stood, with the door and my mouth wide open.
Surely there was at least one beautiful unattached princess for the
prince to woo. Shaking my head, I closed the door and followed my
stepsisters, who were no doubt yanking every garment they owned from
their wardrobes and whining that they were unfit to be seen by
anyone, let alone a prince.

When
I arrived in the room my sisters and I shared, my assumptions were
proved correct. The twins were seated on the floor with the few
dresses they owned, fit to burst into tears as Charisse tried to
placate them. "We can fix these up and they will be beautiful for
the ball. Don't you worry, dears." They protested, but Charisse
silenced them. "You know we can't afford to be buying fancy new
dresses just so the prince will notice you. More than half the girls
there will be dressed just the same as you, or worse." This did not
soothe my sisters, and they began to wail again. Suddenly I felt a
hand on my shoulder.

"What
has my girls sitting on the floor crying?" My father looked
concerned, but there was humor in his eyes.

"Charles,
please tell them we can't afford to buy them dresses for some silly
ball." Charisse looked exasperated, and turned to him for support
against her screeching children.

"What
ball is this?"

Mirabelle
perked up a little, then remembered herself and tried to look
forlorn. "Prince Ethelard is having a ball and he's going to pick
a wife and if we don't look nice he won't even bother to look at
us!" Morna nodded her agreement.

"We
can buy gowns for them and still have more than enough for a dowry.
Besides, if one of them catches the Prince's eye, she won't need
a dowry." Only this seemed not to have occurred to his wife, who
considered before she nodded her consent. Mirabelle and Morna
instantly leaped up, grabbed both parents in fervent hugs, and ran
off, making shopping plans. My father watched them go, then turned
back to me. "Isabelle, you don't seem excited. Do you not wish to
go?"

"I
just wonder why the prince doesn't marry some prim roses-and-cream
princess. I certainly don't expect to walk in, be seen by him, and
be swept off of my feet and into a royal wedding chapel- I'm under
no illusions as to my comparison to the kind of people who marry
royalty."

My
father took hold of my shoulders and turned me towards him. "Never,
ever deceive yourself like that. When I married your mother, I
thought she was the most gracious, lovely woman ever to walk the
earth. You inherited her loveliness. If I saw you up against any
princess that ever lived, I would pick you out as the most beautiful
of all."

My
cheeks burned red. "You are my father- you have to tell me things
like that. Even if I had a face like a potato, all lumpy and
pockmarked, you would still say that."

"No
I would not, sweetheart. But you will never believe me. At least go
for me, to have a little fun." He paused for a moment, and then
smiled with mischief. "And you can wear the shoes."

The
mention of the shoes clinched it for me. I had had no intention to
go, but just the thought of wearing those wonderful, amazing,
glorious shoes made the prospect irresistible. "I'll go."

A
week and a half later, I was up to my neck in fabric. Quite
literally, actually- I was being fitted a final time for my gown. My
sisters had spent the entire day after the announcement doing what
every other girl was doing; they went shopping for fabric and dragged
me along. In the end, the twins had settled on matching dresses, one
in blue and one in pink. I had been forced into purchasing a grassy
green fabric that matched my eyes exactly and accented my auburn
hair, but it had begun to grow on me. The tailor that was making the
gown made many comments, both on my petite stature and the ease of
making dresses for small girls, until he began taking measurements.
All the shortcuts he could use for most girls were useless for me- I
was shorter and built very differently from them. Where they were
tall, I reached their shoulders. Where other girls could fit into
corsets, I stretched them and no amount of tugging could make me fit
into what most considered the proper size for my stature. The tailor
noted all of these things, and when he pinned the gown I could hear
him muttering about how some girls were not built to fit fashion. I
ignored him, knowing that at least I would have gorgeous shoes.

When
he finally finished pinning, he led me to a mirror. My eyes grew wide
as I saw what he had done. I had never thought I was pretty. Too
short, too fat, dark complexion- not pretty at all. However, the girl
in this dress was not fat- she was curvy. She was not short- she was
petite. Her complexion was not too dark- it was golden.

I
was going to a ball, and I was pretty.

On
the day of the ball, the village was all in a rush. Every bathhouse
was full, after noon, which I avoided by bathing early in the morning
when I knew no other person would come. Dressmakers hurried to finish
gowns; the cobbler sold off every pair of dressy woman's shoes.
Every beauty product known was completely sold out, even some that no
girl would have tried before she got her chance to catch a prince. I
protested firmly that I would not have anything put on my face, as I
did not wish to turn purple or blue the night of the only social
event I had ever attended and ever intended to be seen attending.
Unfortunately, my stepsisters took other ideas into their heads and
pinned me down so that they could apply various creams, potions, and
compounds to my face. I came out of it looking not much different,
having later realized that most of the concoctions were merely
lotion, and so colorless. They did manage to add something that made
my eyelashes darker, put silvery powder on my eyelids and cheeks, and
rimmed my eyes with a kohl color, at which point I tricked them both
into leaving me alone by informing them that their own colors were
smearing. I twirled my hair up so that it was off my neck, but could
not keep some of the curls from spilling down to just above my
shoulders. I dressed with care, making sure I put not one hair out of
place and got not a spot of silver powder on my lovely dress.

As
the hour of the ball approached, my stepsisters fought over the
mirror, trying to outdo one another in beauty. When they had
finished, I stepped in front of the mirror, checked that I looked
just as good as my stepmother and sisters loudly proclaimed, and went
to my trunk. I took out layers of old dresses and memorabilia,
finally reaching a small box in the corner. I lifted it out slowly,
careful not to jostle the delicate contents, and laid it on my bed.
Removing the lid, I gasped, for within this box lay my glass
slippers. Over the years, I had never taken them out, and had
forgotten just how exquisite they were. The green of the vines
complemented the green of my dress, and any other pair of shoes could
not have rivaled them. As long as they still fit of course. My feet
had grown a little since the creation of the shoes, but I hoped still
that my memory of their being just a little too big was true. I
placed them gently on the floor, stood, and dusted my dress, then
carefully placed my foot inside one shoe. By some divine miracle,
they fit perfectly, as though my father had known exactly what size
my feet would be when I finished growing. I slipped my foot into the
other shoe and picked stepped up to the mirror once again.

The
glass slippers completed the outfit. I stood taller in them, and
looked slimmer. Perhaps even... pretty. I could go to the ball and
not be ashamed, but look everyone in the eye and know that I was fit
to be there. Suddenly my reverie was broken my father, warning the
three of us that the ball commenced in thirty minutes. My sisters
panicked. How were we going to get to the palace in thirty minutes?
We did not have a cart, and to walk would take us nearly an hour. We
hurried out of the room to ask him what to do.

When
we arrived in the kitchen where our father waited, he let out a low
whistle. Morna, who had her mother's dark hair and pale skin,
looked resplendent in a high-waisted gown of palest blue. Mirabelle,
however, had worn a similar dress of pink, which coupled with her
golden hair and ivory skin to make her look like a rosebud. I, on the
other hand, had brown-red hair and a green dress; no prince would
ever choose the brash, brightly colored bird-girl that I looked to be
over the sweet spring flowers of my sisters. I reminded myself that I
was not going for the prince.

"So
how are we going to be there on time?" Mirabelle looked positively
frightened that we would be unfashionably late or arrive muddy and
punctual.

"Well
you couldn't very well walk." He took her hand and mine and led
us to the front door. There stood a great orange carriage, pulled by
four plain farm horses, with an old farmhand wearing his work pants
and a leery grin in the driver's place.

"It
looks like a pumpkin," whined Morna.

"It
was the only carriage left for hire. Only by some providential hand
did I get one at all."

"It's
lovely, Father!" I hugged him about the neck, careful not to crush
my dress, and started to get into the carriage, but he held onto my
hand while signaling the other two to get in. "What?"

"I
just wanted to tell you... You're lovely. And I shall be sad to see
my little girl go. Even if this prince is too silly to see your inner
beauty to match the outer, one will someday. Look carefully at the
princes, be they farmyard princes or princes by birth. Pick wisely."

I
laughed. "Oh, Father, you have the strangest sense of humor. No
prince, real or imagined, is going to win me with anything but real,
true love, so don't you worry. We're going to be late." I
climbed into the carriage, waved out of the window at him, and we
pulled away into the night.

Mirabelle
and Morna wailed inconsolably until I informed them that it ruined
their complexions to cry. The carriage had lost a wheel ten minute's
drive from the palace, which meant that we would take nearly thirty
minutes to walk there. The driver apologized, but from the size of
the pothole in the road, I could tell that it was none of his fault.
Instead, I helped the twins up and we began to walk. If we took it
slowly, we would not soil our gowns and we could possibly arrive
before the line of ladies was finished making introductions to the
prince. I did not intend to join it, but the thought of not having to
wait seemed to cheer my sisters. We walked on slowly.

When
we arrived, it appeared that my prediction was right. There were
still ten girls waiting to present themselves to a bored young man in
a golden circlet, who I took to be the prince. Dusting themselves
off, my stepsisters joined the queue. I walked over towards the area
where it seemed that most of the chaperones stood. They would not
bother with a simple peasant girl.

"Excuse
me, miss."

I
looked up, startled. "Yes?"

"Before
you stand by the wall, perhaps you should be introduced to the
prince?"

"Really,
I-" before I had time to finish my objection, the page had taken me
gently but firmly by the arm and led me to the line, where only my
sisters remained. "No, I don't want to...."

"Don't
want to what, milady?"

I
whirled to face the prince, who had asked the question so simply. "Oh
nothing." I smiled politely and curtsied, then looked up again when
the familiarity of the face registered in my mind.

"If
he has accosted you in any way, it shall be put to rights. And what
is your name?" He spoke with only slightly less arrogance than he
had the last time we had met. Did he not recognize me?

"Isabella,
my lord. He has not offended me." I curtsied once more, avoiding
lifting my skirt at all in hopes that he would not notice my shoes.
Indeed, this same young man was responsible for their creation, and
would certainly want to know where I got them if he saw them.

"Well
Isabella, to rectify any harm that he may have done, would you accept
my offer to dance?" He asked the question with no apparent emotion,
but something in his eyes compelled me unwillingly to give my
consent. He took my arm and led me onto the floor, where I gathered
many enraged looks from other prospective princesses. It was only
then that I remembered that I had never learned to dance except for
the simple teachings of my stepsisters.

"I
shouldn't do this."

"Whyever
not?"

"I
um... I... well, I can't dance very well."

Prince
Ethelard laughed. "Well then, I shall have to teach you." He
seized my hands and placed them correctly, then guided me slowly
through the steps of the waltz. Soon we were fairly flying, but I
noticed only his eyes, which stared into mine in a most unsettling
manner. When the music faded, I realized that we had danced our way
onto a terrace, with many tall flowering bushes and trees.

"Would
you like to sit down, Isabella?"

"Oh,
um, yes, I suppose..." I faltered. He took my hand and seated me on
a stone bench, then sat beside me.

"You
really are a very beautiful girl."

"Uh...
thank you." I was nervous. He was sitting rather closer than I had
seen two people who were courting sit, let alone those who had just
met.

"You
have wonderful eyes, like sunflowers in spring. Quite exquisite."
At this point, he leaned in as though to get a better look at them,
brushing his fingers over my cheek in a familiar manner. I leaned
back a bit.

"Yes,
well, um... yours are pretty too." I regretted the clumsy comment
the moment I made it, but his gaze had changed from kind to something
else, nearly that of a cat watching an oblivious lark."Oh, you
silly girl..." he whispered, then suddenly leaned forward and
kissed me firmly as his hands wrapped around my waist. Shock ran
through me, and I turned my face away although his arms held me
trapped against him.

"Pardon
me! That was...." I could not speak any more, as he had covered my
mouth with his, and I tensed against him. He began running his hands
along my back, and I tried to shove him away. He proved stronger than
I did, and although I shook my head, kicked, and hit, he would not
let me go. Our terrace was rather secluded, and no chaperones had
followed us outside.

Finally,
I managed to wriggle out of his rather inappropriate grasp and set
off at as much of a run as I could manage. One of my shoes fell off,
and I turned back to get it, but as I reached for it, Prince Ethelard
came running after me. When he saw the shoe lying on the stone
walkway, he stopped. "You're the girl. The one with the shoes!"

"Yes,
well, a lot of girls do own shoes." I left the slipper where it
fell, wrenched the other one off my foot, and set off at full tilt
for home. As I ran, I could hear the clock in the palace chapel
chiming the hour of midnight, and only then did I realize how long we
had danced. I could hear voices echoing down the path behind me,
shouting for someone to fetch a horse, and I knew that unless I took
the shortcut home I would never escape the prince. Without thinking,
I darted off the road and through woods I had played in as a child.
My dress tore on brambles and branches, but I ran on blindly, praying
that he would not know which house was ours.

After
a thirty-minute eternity, I stumbled back into the kitchen and ran to
my room. If he came, I would be a servant, a cinder-girl. I would be
unrecognizable, not someone who would be able to come to a ball in a
lovely green gown and glass shoes. I changed into the gown I had worn
seven years before when he came, now ragged and full of holes.
Rubbing cinders on my face, I dropped to my knees and prayed to God
that he not find me.

Apparently
God was answering someone else's prayer, for within minutes, the
thud of hooves sounded and my father woke to someone pounding at the
door. Running down the hallway, he saw me curled on the floor,
sobbing in fear, and took my hands just as someone began to force the
door open from outside. "Cinders, Ella," he whispered, then stood
to step in front of me and shield my trembling form from the Prince's
view as the door burst wide.

"Where
is she?" Prince Ethelard looked comically out of place in our
humble house, his fine garments drenched with sweat from a hard ride,
framed against the simple wooden walls.

"Who?
My lord, I do not know...." My father acted genuinely confused,
and I blessed him for it.

"Isabella!
I know she's here.... Isabella?" He had spotted me, hiding in the
corner with tears cutting through the soot on my face. He came and
took my hands, looking straight into my eyes. "Yes, it is you. But
how did you get here so quickly, and why are you covered in cinders?
You could not have fooled me, not with those sunflower eyes."

Those
same "sunflower eyes" filled with tears as he spoke. Did nobody
know what a bandit he was? Did they not understand? He took my hand
and pulled me to my feet. "I am taking Isabella to be my bride. She
will be the happiest woman in the kingdom with me, with fine clothing
and servants and my utter devotion." He smiled confidently, but I
shook my head and muttered at my father.

"No,
no, no," I whispered. More tears came, and more of the cinders were
washed from my face. My father began to protest, but before he could
argue, the prince had taken my hand and dragged me out into the night
once more. He vaulted onto his white horse, taking care not to let go
of my hand, and lifted me up to a seat me in front of him before
nudging his horse into a sedate walk.

The
entire hour-long ride, I cried, and the prince still insisted that I
would be happy with my fate. Every so often, he would place a kiss on
the back of my neck, at which I shuddered and cried even more. The
hand that did not hold the reins was wrapped possessively around my
waist and stroked my side gently, an ever-present reminder that he
was stronger than I in more ways than one and I could not deny him my
hand. When we arrived back at the palace, he took me inside and
brought me up to the King and Queen still dirty, barefoot, and
wearing a dress that was little more than rags. Hastily he conferred
with his parents, and then turned me around to face every girl in the
kingdom.

"Ladies
and gentlemen, may I have your attention. Doubtless you know the
purpose of this ball- to find myself a worthy bride, and I have
achieved just that! May I introduce the lady Isabella!" As all the
maidens of the kingdom glared daggers at me and clapped politely, I
burst into tears once more.

After
the prince's- or rather, my fiancé's- announcement, the
ball ended, and the various disgruntled maidens drifted out of the
ballroom one by one. I, as another disgruntled maiden, was not so
lucky as to be allowed to leave. Instead, a messenger traveled back
to town to congratulate my parents on my engagement, and I was
whisked off to new chambers in the palace. The room reminded me of a
prison, albeit a gilded one with a proper bed, a stone fireplace, and
a window without bars. Soon I was to find out how much of a prison it
really was.

The
next day I woke with dawn to find a servant girl stoking the fire in
my prison- er, bedchamber. When I started to speak to her, she shoved
a letter at me, curtseyed politely, and left the room. I tore it open
to reveal a note from my father. It told me of his attempts to free
me from the hands of the prince, but no matter whether he could stand
up to a pompous young man, princes were a completely different
matter. Despite his efforts, I was to be married. A few minutes
later, another maid entered the chamber and informed me that she was
to help me dress. "What on earth do I need help dressing for? I
have done it on my own since I was five years of age, and I believe
that I have not regressed overnight to the point that I would once
again need assistance!" There began my instruction on how to
properly behave like a princess.

"Milady,
you are a princess now, and princesses do not dress on their own."
She told me this as if I were a simpleton, and should already have
known that princesses were too incompetent to dress on their own
without having the bodice in the back. I glared at her, but she won
the battle of wills when I realized that she would not allow me to
dress on my own or leave the room until I was properly clothed. It
took nearly an hour to make myself presentable, as the dressmakers
who had made gowns for the new princess had obviously expected a girl
of slightly larger stature. The gown's waist was nearly level with
my knees, and to walk would have meant treading on nearly a foot of
hem. Finally, she stitched it up and sent the rest of them back to
the dressmakers to be shortened. Then I was allowed to leave the
room, only to find a page waiting to escort me to the dining hall.

I
recognized him instantly. "You!" I found it difficult to
restrain my hands from strangling the lad, and settled instead on a
heated glare.

"Yes,
milady?" He looked at me quizzically before taking my arm and
attempting to steer me in the direction of breakfast. I had allowed
him to steer me once, and had no intention of doing it again, as it
had gotten me into the mess I was in at the moment.

"You're
the one who made me go meet the prince. Do you remember? I wanted to
stand at the back, but you dragged me up to him. And now I'm
engaged, thanks to you." I glared at him, but he only looked
pleased with himself as he attempted to drag me down the hall. He was
taller than I was, but in my anger, he found me hard to budge.

"You're
welcome, my lady. I'm glad that you're happy."

"What
are you talking about? My fiancé is disgusting! The scum of
the earth would be ashamed to be associated with him! And it is
entirely your fault that I am now miserable!" Several servants had
stopped in the hallways to stare at me while I ranted, but I did not
care, wanting only to communicate my anger to this poor, stupid boy.

"Oh."
This response only angered me more. One word in recompense for the
anger, the tears, the imprisonment, the life of misery? Just "oh?"

"What
do you mean by that, you fool? Don't you understand what you have
done?" He began backing down the corridor as I shouted, and I
followed him. "Do you know that I will have to be married to that
crowned slug? That I will be expected to be a good and happy wife, so
that we might have a good and happy kingdom? That each and every day
I live that I will hate myself and him, and you? Do you realize
that?" Suddenly I looked up. We were standing in the great hall, in
front of the King, the Queen, and my disgusting fiancé- not to
mention half of the courtiers residing in the palace. Silently I
allowed the page to bring me to my seat at Prince Ethelard's side.

"Good
morning, dearest. I trust you slept well?" The slimy little man
dared to smile at me with all the oil he could muster, although I
could see the reproach behind his supposedly adoring gaze.

"Seeing
as I cried myself to sleep, trapped in the prison you call my
quarters, I would not say so." He seemed to ignore this comment.
"Good, but you did not seem at all yourself. Shouting at that page
in such an unladylike manner. Are you feeling ill?" He appeared
mildly concerned, but I have certainly seen better actors. I also
knew that if I answered in the affirmative I would be allowed to
escape his presence, but would be confined to my quarters. Still,
anything would be preferable to sitting within reach of a human
snake.

"Yes,
I believe that I should like to rest." He signaled for the
offending page, who escorted me from the room.

Walking
down the halls, he broke the silence. "I understand how you feel,
milady." I was shocked. How could this inconsiderate little boy
know how miserable I felt? "My father made me come to the palace
and become a page. He hoped that one day I would be strong enough to
be a knight. At home, I did not like learning to master weapons like
my brothers. They were his pride, and I was the disgrace.
Nevertheless, my father had been a knight, and... well...." I began
to sympathize with him. He could fight his father's will no more
than I could fight the prince's wishes.

"So
why do you stay? I'm sure that once you got here he could no longer
dictate what you could or could not do."

"Where
else would I go, and who would go with me? I'm just a boy. Here we
are, milady." The page left me at my chamber door and hurried back
down the hall to his next duty. I entered the room, shut the door,
and laid on my bed, feigning sleep and illness. Though my eyes were
closed, my mind was wide awake, trying to hatch a plan. When I had
thought of as many routes of escape as were possible, even if highly
improbable, I fell into real sleep.

I
woke at dawn once more, but this time the fire was already stoked. I
let a servant dress me with a minimum of resistance, owing to the
fact that I had missed all meals the preceding day and wanted food.
The page waited outside the door to escort me once again, and I
wasted no time. "What is your name?"

"Trey.
I'm the third child."

"Well,
Trey, I have an idea."

"Yes,
milady," he answered absently.

"Listen,
I've thought of a way to get the two of us out of here." I
stopped and looked around for any servants that might be listening,
then dropped my voice to a whisper. At the mention of the word out,
his eyes glowed and he began to listen attentively. "As you appear
to enjoy being a page only slightly more than I enjoy being a
princess, I have decided that the two of us should escape together. I
will send a letter as your father to your instructor, requesting your
immediate but temporary return home because of a terrible accident.
In the meantime, you will bring me page clothing, and I will sneak
out with you as a friend your father has allowed you to bring along
with you. We can travel to my father's house, and he will most
certainly give us food and perhaps a bit of money. Then we will go,
together, as far away as possible." I was pleading with him, but it
was unnecessary. He looked positively rapturous- hopeful but a little
frightened. Just as he began to reply, we neared the great hall
doors. "We can discuss this later," I muttered hastily before I
went in to break my fast.

Prince
Ethelard stood as I entered, smiling in a cold, possessive manner.
"Ah, my princess is here at last." He stretched out his hand, and
when I did not place mine in his, he took it anyway and guided me to
my seat.

"I
could have found it on my own," I snapped under my breath,
accompanying the words with an insincere smile. He did not release me
from his grasp as my plate was loaded with fresh fruit, bread, and
cheese. I looked down at the utensils on the table dubiously, then
freed my hand from his and began to eat with my fingers. His eyes
widened in shock, and he hastily grabbed my hand and placed it in my
lap under the table.

"Have
you no manners, or do you simply choose to shame your finishing
school mistress?" I smiled at him, the image of angelic submission,
and resumed eating with my fingers. I hoped that I would disgust him
thoroughly and he would break off our engagement. Instead, he had my
plate taken from me. I sat, stomach complaining loudly at my
insolence, and spoke with him and his parents for the hour and a half
that it took for the meal to conclude. I hoped that Trey would escort
me back to my quarters, but instead I was descended upon by a flock
of ladies-in-waiting who were to educate me. I was going to learn the
proper manner and deportment of a princess whether I liked it or not.

In
the weeks to follow, the highlight of my day was the five minutes
before the first meal that I spent with Trey. He had a dreamer's
spirit much like my own, and the idea of escaping seemed to make his
dreary existence a bit more bearable. Soon he had acquired a page's
uniform for me, stolen on laundry day from a particularly unpleasant
companion of his. I hid the garments atop my bed canopy after
clearing away the dust, and the knowledge that it was there made
manner class manageable and embroidery less mind numbing. Still I was
forced to fake deportment and civility through day after day of
Ethelard, his parents, and the denizens of the court, all the time
wishing that I were home. Finally, under the guise of practicing my
penmanship, I was able to present Trey with a letter to his
instructor, informing him of a tragic horse accident, and the
requirement of Trey's immediate presence at home with his dying
father. When he was informed that he would be allowed to leave in two
days, I very nearly floated. Finally, I could see an end to my
misery, an unlocked door in my prison of gold. Some other girl could
wear the bejeweled shackles of Queenship, but I would be free. The
final two days were perhaps the most difficult, freedom within sight
but as yet unattainable, as I continued to pretend my smiles and act
through my days.

My
plan worked. As you read this letter, I am most likely leaving my
father's house on my way to the sea. We have escaped the gilded
cage. Finally, like the hero in one of my own much-beloved books, I
am going to find an adventure, or perhaps many. I may write to you of
these adventures, but only to prove that you cannot imprison a free
spirit. I daresay that if you go over to the window now, you might
see two peasant boys with heavy packs leaving this town. If so, wave
to them, for that will be the last glimpse you get of your princess.

Sincerely,

The
Ex-Princess and Adventurer Isabella

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